


Side by side (it's always been just you and me)

by tryalittlejoytomorrow



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Future Fic, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4033066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryalittlejoytomorrow/pseuds/tryalittlejoytomorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows Bellamy like the back of her hand now, has a mental map of all the scars that mar his body, can recognize the sound of his boots on the ground, the changes in his breathing, the very scent of him, woods and earth and blood and dirt and something that’s just Bellamy – which is, she admits it herself, a ridiculous thought because Clarke can’t pinpoint what it is but she calls it Bellamy, familiar and warm and home.</p>
<p>(Or: a series of vignettes in which Clarke and Bellamy slowly realize that there’s something there that wasn’t there before. Set in the future, as they settle in their new camp and go from just surviving to living.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat canon-divergent from the end of season 2 because I started writing this ages ago.
> 
> Title from Bastille's "Skulls" which is my ultimate the 100 song.

He finds her in the makeshift med bay – she’s _always_ in med bay these days, what with all the stupid accidents and injuries from building their new camp and hunting, but his feet would take him to her wherever she is anyway. Something about the sun and the moon gravitating around it, or all the maps that always lead to her. _Whatever_.

 

Clarke doesn’t turn as he comes in, unannounced; she _knows_ it’s him. She knows Bellamy like the back of her hand now, has a mental map of all the scars that mar his body, can recognize the sound of his boots on the ground, the changes in his breathing, the very scent of him, woods and earth and blood and dirt and something that’s _just Bellamy_ – which is, she admits it herself, a ridiculous thought because Clarke _can’t_ pinpoint what _it_ is but she calls it Bellamy, familiar and warm and _home_.

 

He squeezes her shoulder as he kneels down beside her, his hand reaching out to tuck a lost stray curl that fell from her plait behind her ear; he’ll have to braid it again later. Clarke’s hands can do many things, comfort and soothe and heal, but she’s hopeless when it comes to keeping her hair from falling in her eyes. “Thanks,” she says, the faintest blush tinting her cheeks.

 

Bellamy smiles before turning his attention to Jasper who is lying on a cot. “How is he?” he asks, his gaze turning soft and worried as he takes in the sleeping boy’s still red skin.

 

“He’s getting much better,” Clarke assures him as she applies a wet cloth to Jasper’s forehead, gently brushing his hair off his forehead. “He just needs to rest and stay hydrated.”

 

Bellamy shakes his head, letting out a low, breathy sigh. “I should have made sure they took a break and got some water,” he murmurs, guilt dripping in his tone – it’s always there now, so much that it’s become his default setting. It’s his job to make sure everybody’s safe and whenever one of the kids gets hurt it feels personal, like _he_ failed them.

 

Clarke senses his turmoil – she always does – and she tilts her head to meet his eyes, hers impossibly blue and soft. “This is not your fault, Bellamy,” she says quietly, “you _did_ tell them to take a break. But everybody wants the walls and cabins to be done, and sometimes they push themselves too much. You can’t do anything about it.” Clarke pauses, letting her words sink in before she adds, “It’s just a sunstroke, Jasper’s gonna be fine.”

 

He wants to argue – maybe he can’t do anything about it, but it doesn’t mean he won’t _try_. But Clarke gives him that look, the one that says _you did good here, you’re doing good_ , and he presses his lips in a thin line and gives her a nod. There’s no fighting Clarke, no convincing her that she could be wrong when she’s decided to put her faith in someone, and for the life of him Bellamy doesn’t understand _why_ she believes in him so much; but she does, and he’ll spend every minute of his life trying to deserve it. That’s a vow he made to himself a long time ago, one dark night in the woods where the monsters turned out to be just trees.

 

Clarke gives him a smile before propping her hand on his shoulder to push herself off the ground and get up, extending a hand to him to help him in turn. “Did you need me for anything?” she asks. It’s not _exactly_ like all they do together is run camp and try to keep the kids alive, but it kind of _is_ , so when Bellamy comes to see her there’s usually a reason.

 

“We’re going hunting,” Bellamy tells her. “I just wanted to let you know.”

 

“ _Oh_.”

 

Clarke averts her gaze, focusing her eyes on his chest instead of his face as she tries to hide the frown that’s burrowed its way between her brows. Bellamy sees it – of course he does – but he lets her be for a moment. He gets it, it happens every time; he goes to tell her he’s leaving and Clarke freezes for a second, that lost, scared look in her eyes, and he can’t blame her. How could he? If Earth has taught them anything, it’s that something bad happens every time they’re apart. But they’re the leaders and people look up to them, they can’t show weakness; it doesn’t mean it’s easy – it probably never will be. If it was the other way around, if he had to watch her go, Bellamy knows he would worry like crazy, too.

 

He _has_ before.

 

But it’s the way things are. Clarke’s the healer, the nurturing one, and her place is right here at the camp; his is out there, hunting and guarding. He doesn’t have to like it, and he doesn’t; he _hates_ seeing her distraught and knowing that _he’s_ the reason why. Bellamy wants to say something; that he’s sorry, that everything will be fine, that she doesn’t have to worry, but it’d be a lie and they both know it so he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he lets her adjust the strap of his rifle, her fingers smoothing the fabric of his shirt on their way and then going to his belt to check that his knife is there. She’s _fussing_ over him but trying to hide it and honest to God, it’s ridiculously _cute_ and Bellamy kind of hates himself a little bit for thinking things like this. Clarke’s upset and he shouldn’t find her cute, but with her bottom lip pulled between her teeth and the sheer concern and care on her face, he can’t help the small smile that tugs at his lips.

 

“You be careful, okay?” she murmurs, her breath tickling the exposed skin over his collar as she still refuses to look him in the eye.

 

“I always am, Princess,” he replies easily, and when he feels her scoff, Bellamy gently cups her chin with his hand, tilting her face up. “Clarke,” he speaks her name softly, fondly, because that’s the only way he knows how now. She still looks scared but he can feel the tension slowly dissipating as he runs his thumb over the dent of her lips, and then Bellamy moves his hand to cup her cheek and the little sigh Clarke lets out as she leans into his touch almost makes him change his mind about leaving.

 

Miller can lead the hunting party; all he wants to do is stay here all day.

 

Maybe one day. Not today, though. Bellamy reluctantly drops his hand and hers find his chest again, gently patting there. “Just be careful,” she insists in a low whisper. “I’m not patching you up if you come back with another scratch. I mean it.”

 

Bellamy laughs. “You say that all the time.”

 

Clarke tries to look offended, but ends up laughing, too. “I mean it this time!” He rolls his eyes and she pokes a finger at his chest. “Okay, go, now. Bring me back a boar.”

 

Bellamy grins before embellishing a ridiculous bow. “As you wish, Princess.”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, aims a ridiculously light punch at his shoulder and he exits the med bay, her laughter following him.

 

* * *

 

 

(He comes back with _three_.

 

She smiles so brightly it puts all the stars in the sky in the shade.)

 

* * *

 

 

_to be continued_

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raven props one hand on his shoulder to lower herself beside him, the other holding a cup of moonshine she's dangling between unsteady fingers. "Your princess is drunk," she announces all too proud, her lips half caught between a grin and a smirk as her alcohol-filled breath tickles Bellamy's cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because a tipsy, stupidly, adorably drunk Clarke is something dreams are made of.
> 
> (and also: Raven ships it to the moon and back.)

Raven props one hand on his shoulder to lower herself beside him, the other holding a cup of moonshine she's dangling between unsteady fingers. "Your princess is drunk," she announces all too proud, her lips half caught between a grin and a smirk as her alcohol-filled breath tickles Bellamy's cheek.

 

"So are _you_ , Reyes," he rolls his eyes, stealing the cup from her and taking a gulp, coughing a little at the taste. "Definitely _not_ Monty's finest," he grimaces.

 

"Monty's been too busy flirting with Miller lately to focus on anything else," Raven replies, bumping her shoulder to his in a shrug. "It's actually kind of really adorable."

 

"Adorable?" Bellamy echoes, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Raven Reyes just used the word _adorable_. You're even more drunk than I thought."

 

She sticks her tongue out at him, childish and carefree in a way none of them has been in a long time - which is probably why they're throwing a party for no real reason except for being alive. "Shut up. Everybody thinks they're adorable, _including you_. Don't even try and deny it, Clarke told me."

 

"You also said Clarke was drunk, so no one's gonna believe you."

 

And she _is_ , Bellamy realizes as his eyes find her in the middle of the crowd. Clarke's twirling, hands thrown in the air and golden curls flying around, and her cheeks are pink and her eyes gleaming from exhilaration as she's half dancing, half flailing her limbs around, one of her hands accidentally punching Wick in the nose. He watches, amused, as she turns and apologizes profusely, her apology turning into a fit of girly, joyous giggles as Wick just grins and grabs her hand to twirl her some more.

 

...which just sends her propelling into Harper, almost knocking her out.

 

"This is just horrendous," Bellamy mutters under his breath, lifting the cup to his lips again for a second sip that tastes no better than the first.

 

Raven's laugh comes muffled against his shoulder. " _Horrendous_ ," he feels her mouth against his skin, her forehead heavy against him as if she were about to fall asleep right then and there. "You're no better, Blake."

 

"Which is why you don't see _me_ dancing," Bellamy says with a chuckle.

 

"That's not the reason," Raven replies with a certainty he didn't expect in her inebriated state. He tilts his head to look at her, and Raven's looking up at him from underneath her lashes, her chin propped on his shoulder. "You're not drinking, you're not dancing, and you've been sitting here almost all night." She pauses, her eyes narrowing at him. "You just don't know how to relax, do you?"

 

Bellamy resists the urge to jostle her. Instead, he gives her one of his charming, winning smiles, but Raven just keeps frowning at him. He sighs. "Maybe this is my idea of fun, sitting there and talking with drunk girls. O came earlier and told me my hair was getting ridiculous. Good times."

 

"It does a little bit," Raven hums in agreement. "But Clarke loves it."

 

Bellamy chuckles again, turning his gaze back to the crowd of drunk and dancing kids. "She told you that, too?" he asks, not really caring about the answer. Or _believing_ it. Drunk or sober, Raven just loves teasing him anyway.

 

He feels Raven shake her head. "No. But I know it. She's kind of an open book, really." She shifts against him, sitting a little straighter, her fingers curled around his knee for balance. "She did this for you, you know?" Raven tells him like it's both a secret and still so very obvious at the same time. "Like, okay, the party's for the entire camp, to cheer them up, but she did it for you. To cheer _you_ up."

 

Bellamy frowns a little. "I don't need cheering up," he says, confused. "I'm fine."

 

Raven rolls her eyes. "You're _fine_ , right," she snorts. "This is a party and you're sitting there like a hawk, watching, looking out like we're still at war. Like you expect someone to just come out of the woods and slaughter us all anytime. You're fine, sure."

 

"Your point?"

 

She lets out a heavy, aggravated sigh like he's the dumbest person she's ever talked to. "Parties are meant to be fun, so go _have fun_. Monty and Miller have disappeared, probably to make out _at fucking last_ , and everybody's safe and happy, so, I don't know, give it a try maybe?" Raven says, full of sass and that tender affection she hides behind it.

 

"Okay, then," Bellamy agrees as he sets his cup on the ground and stands, offering her his hand. "Come on, dance with me, Reyes."

 

"You're totally missing the point on purpose here," she groans, slapping his hand. "Go dance with _Clarke_."

 

"She's dancing with Wick," Bellamy counters.

 

Raven just glares at him. "They're both dancing in the same space, generally flailing in each other's direction. That's not called dancing _with_ each other. And I promise you, she'll ditch him the moment she sees you walking to her."

 

"Wick might be heartbroken." Raven just stares him down, arms crossed over her chest, an eyebrow cocked at him, her entire stance screaming that she's not here for this bullshit. "Okay, okay, I'm going," Bellamy finally agrees. "Jesus, no need to look at me like that."

 

Raven just gives him a smug smile. "Good boy."

 

* * *

 

 

Raven was right, which Bellamy will _never_ admit to her face, or to anyone, really. He's barely made his way through the crowd, getting a slap on the back from Murphy because _wow, the king has finally graced us with his presence_ , when Clarke turns and spots him, beaming smile and arms open and reaching out for him.

 

"Bellamy!" she half tries to whisper, half shouts as she runs and bumps into his chest, her arms wrapping loosely around his waist in unabashed affection.

 

(It is a general rule that Clarke is an affectionate person, Bellamy's seen it up close. In the morning, when he tries to gently wake her up, she always ends up snuggling against him, sleepily begging for five more minutes. When he comes back from hunting or a trade with a Grounder tribe bearing gifts, she does this sort of half-hug, pressing herself to his side, and a secret smile just for him on her lips. But _drunk_ _Clarke_? That's a new one.

 

And she's kind of adorable, _yeah_.)

 

She lifts her fingers to his mouth, tracing the edge of his smile. "You're smiling," she says, adorably confused. "I thought you hated parties."

 

Her hand falls to his collarbone, and he takes it in his. "Not yours," he replies simply. "It's a nice party. Monty and Miller have stopped being idiots apparently, so yeah, this is on you, Princess."

 

She's beaming, happy and a little smug like it _is_ her doing, and Bellamy can't help mirroring her. "What about _you_?" she asks, "Having fun?"

 

Clarke's still smiling, but her gaze seems a little less dazed than it was minutes ago when she was giggling at Wick's antics, and her voice is just this side of concerned and serious like his enjoying himself is important enough to her to sober her up. So Bellamy nods his head, squeezing her hand. "Yeah," he grins. "How could I not? You were giving quite the show out there."

 

Clarke aims to punch at his chest but she ends up patting him, light and a little awkward with her other hand still clasped in his. "I'll have you know I'm a great dancer," she says, as serious as she can. Bellamy's unimpressed. "I am!" she pouts.

 

"Sure you are," Bellamy chuckles teasingly, which only makes Clarke pout more - which only makes her look cuter, _of course_. "Wanna dance, then?" he offers, casual and a little bit smitten with the way her face illuminates.

 

They end up dancing in the same space, generally flailing in each other's direction like Raven said; if Clarke's a terrible dancer, Bellamy's more of the guy nodding along to the music, pretending to feel the rhythm when he really _doesn't_. Clarke never lets go of his hand, tugging at it to make him move or using it to make herself twirl, and Bellamy just watches her with a smile, pulling her to him when she gets too close to bumping into someone else.

 

The dancing's horrendous, but at the same time it's _really_ _not_. It feels _nice_. Pretty great, even, especially when after twenty minutes or an hour, Bellamy doesn't even know, Clarke ends up leaning against him, half asleep and yet still refusing to go to bed. "Just - don't let me fall, okay?" she murmurs against his chest.

 

"Never," Bellamy replies quietly, honest and earnest, as he keeps swaying her to a gentle rhythm that doesn't match up to the one Monroe's setting at the drums for the rest of the kids who seem to be ready to keep going all night. "This is fun."

 

"Yeah?" she asks, lifting her head up to look at him beneath fluttering lashes.

 

"Yeah," he promises. "The kids needed this." He pauses, lifting a hand to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. Clarke's skin is soft and warm from the alcohol and the dancing, and she makes this sort of _noise_ \- something caught between a whimper and a moan as he tangles his fingers in her hair. "And _I_ needed this. It's nice, not worrying for a night."

 

"You worry too much," Clarke agrees.

 

"There's no such thing as worrying too much down here," Bellamy argues, "but maybe I could learn to relax a little."

 

She laughs against his neck, warm and soft and happy. " _More_ than a little. You're even worse than _me_."

 

He laughs, too. "Oh God, I'm doomed then," he teases, and she laughs again, and his skin feels warm wherever Clarke touches it and he can't even blame it on the two ridiculous sips of moonshine he had. "No, but let me be real for a second," he says after a moment, pushing lightly at her shoulder so she's facing him and not melting in his chest. "We all needed to catch a break and I'm terrible at relaxing, yeah? So thank you for doing this."

 

Clarke gives him a smile, a little dazed still but definitely not as much as it was before, huge and genuine, before she burrows against his chest again. "Just promise me one thing, okay?" she asks softly.

 

His reply comes easily. "Anything."

 

Hers is a whine. "Don't let me drink this much again."

 

* * *

 

(During the next trade, he gets his hands on Grounder wine, something sweet made with strawberries that doesn't make her head pound the next morning, but still twice as affectionate.

Raven high-fives him.)

 

* * *

 

 

_to be continued_


End file.
